Mr. Sabin turned away. He did not speak again
until Duson and he were alone in the sitting-room.
Then he drew out a five dollar bill.

“Duson,” he said, “take this to
the head luggage porter. Tell him to bring his
departure book up here at once, and there is another
waiting for him. You understand?”

“Certainly, sir!”

Mr. Sabin turned to enter his bed-chamber. His
attention was attracted, however, by a letter lying
flat upon the table. He took it up. It
was addressed to Mr. Sabin.

“This is very clever,” he mused, hesitating
for a moment before opening it. “I wired
for rooms only a few hours ago—­and I find
a letter. It is the commencement.”

He tore open the envelope, and drew out a single half-sheet
of note-paper. Across it was scrawled a single
sentence only.

“Go back to Lenox.”

There was no signature, nor any date. The only
noticeable thing about this brief communication was
that it was written in yellow pencil of a peculiar
shade. Mr. Sabin’s eyes glittered as he
read.

“The yellow crayon!” he muttered.

Duson knocked softly at the door. Mr. Sabin
thrust the letter and envelope into his breast coat
pocket.

CHAPTER II

“This is the luggage porter, sir,” Duson
announced. “He is prepared to answer any
questions.”

The man took out his book. Mr. Sabin, who was
sitting in an easy-chair, turned sideways towards
him.

“The Duchess of Souspennier was staying here
last week,” he said. “She left, I
believe, on Thursday or Friday. Can you tell
me whether her baggage went through your hands?”

The man set down his hat upon a vacant chair, and
turned over the leaves of his book.

“Guess I can fix that for you,” he remarked,
running his forefinger down one of the pages.
“Here we are. The Duchess left on Friday,
and we checked her baggage through to Lenox by the
New York, New Haven & Hartford.”

Mr. Sabin nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “She
would probably take a carriage to the station.
It will be worth another ten dollars to you if you
can find me the man who drove her.”

“Well, we ought to manage that for you,”
the man remarked encouragingly. “It was
one of Steve Hassell’s carriages, I guess, unless
the lady took a hansom.”

“That’s all right,” the man remarked.
“Don’t you go to bed for half-an-hour,
and I guess you’ll hear from me again.”

Duson busied himself in the bed-chamber, Mr. Sabin
sat motionless in his easy chair. Soon there
came a tap at the door. The porter reappeared
ushering in a smart-looking young man, who carried
a shiny coachman’s hat in his hand.